"Life is an event, like a fair or a party, and like all such events, it must come to an end. It is up to us whether we thank the host for a good time or bemoan the fact that it cannot go on for longer."
If you're not familiar with Lessons in Stoicism by John Sellars, it's a short, accessible introduction to Stoic philosophy. The kind of book you can read in a day, but one that sits with you for much longer.
It doesn't overcomplicate things. Instead, it offers a practical lens for how individuals can apply Stoicism in everyday life, not just in theory, but in real, lived moments.
I keep a copy in my laptop bag and take it with me everywhere. And the line above, well, it has always stayed with me. It's simple. And strangely calming. Maybe that's why it lands so well.
Because even though it's talking quite plainly about life and death, it removes the illusion that all of this is permanent. That it's something we're meant to control, extend, or somehow perfect. Instead, it frames life as something contained. A beginning, a middle, and an end. Like any event... or even a party.
And by recognising that, for me, it simplifies things; even the beauty, and the tragedy, of life and death. But perhaps what is most interesting is, then, it almost quietly asks something of you: "When it's all said and done, will you be grateful for the experience, or resentful that it couldn't last longer?"
For me, when something as deep as life and death is summarised like that, reduced to its essence, it becomes less overwhelming. Not easier, no, far from it. But clearer. And there's something grounding and freeing in that kind of clarity.
This type of thinking has really shaped not just how I approach counselling, but how I try to live more generally. Because once you accept that it ends, the question shifts. It's no longer about how to hold onto it forever, but how you show up while you're here.
Now, of course, let's be real for a second. Post-COVID, most of us probably aren't romanticising parties the way we once did. If anything, we're quicker to leave early, less tolerant of small talk, and a bit more protective of our energy. But that's actually what makes the metaphor work even better. Life isn't being framed here as some grand, eternal experience. It's something temporary. Something we arrive at, participate in, and eventually leave.
And the uncomfortable truth is... well, we already know that.
Maybe not consciously, not in a way we sit with every day, and sure, when it does confront us, it can hit pretty hard. But somewhere underneath it all, it's there. That quiet awareness that this isn't forever.
Which is what brings me to time.
Not life itself, but time itself.
Because everywhere you look, someone is talking about it. Time is fleeting. It flies. It's slipping away. And while that might be true, that narrative can quietly turn into pressure. Another weight. Another voice in the background asking: "What have you done with yours? And, where did it go?
And if you sit with that question for too long, it doesn't feel motivating. It feels heavy.
I'm not a huge fan of social media, but whenever I do log into Facebook or LinkedIn, there's always someone talking about how they wake up at 3 am, cycle 50km, bench 150kg, close three deals, take the dog for a walk and journal their gratitude before an ice bath... all before you've even had your first coffee. Kidding, but whether we admit it or not, that stuff seeps in. Because somewhere along the line, time has shifted from being something we experience to something we're expected to optimise.
It's become a commodity. Something to maximise, track, measure, compare. And the moment that happens, time stops feeling like something you're living in and starts feeling like something you're constantly behind on... almost like you're late to your own life.
Suddenly, time isn't just passing… It's chasing you.
And for us escaping our 30s and 40s... perhaps even more so!
But psychologically, time doesn't behave the way we pretend it does. It's not clean, not linear, not neatly segmented into past, present and future the way a calendar suggests. It bends. It distorts. It softens.
It's something you can visit. Something you can leave behind and something you can plan for the future.
Think about how we look back on certain periods of our lives. Even the difficult ones. Stressful jobs, relationships that didn't work, times when we felt lost or overwhelmed. Even that dickhead bully from primary school. Yet, over time, something shifts. All of those edges soften, and there remains a quiet fondness, not necessarily for what happened, but for the fact that we made it through.
That we endured it. Time doesn't just pass... it reshapes. It edits the emotional texture and fabric of our memories.
And then there's the future. Lookout... because unlike the past, it hasn't been processed. It hasn't softened. It's undefined and uncertain. Put all that together, and it can feel heavier than it really is. So we try to get ahead of it. We plan it, optimise it, and control it as if we can somehow manage time before it even arrives. But we can't. And we never really could.
So, oh my, we end up in this strange position where the past feels warmer than it actually was, the future feels heavier than it probably will be, and the present... the only place time is actually happening, here and right now... quietly slips by, unnoticed.
And that's the part that matters. Here and now.
Because when people say "time is fleeting", or "oh time flies".... what they really mean is that it has disappeared quickly. But time hasn't moved any faster or slower... but sometimes, well, we're just too busy, and before we know it, it's easy to miss.
And all of this (which I could talk at length about) brings us back to Sellars' idea and the line on page 53 of his book.
If life is like a party, then time isn't something we own, spend, or optimise in the way we've come to talk about it. It's not a commodity. We can't trade it to each other, and in some ways, we don't spend or use better than anyone else... It's simply – and merely - the environment we're in.
It's the music playing in the background while we decide whether we're actually going to get up and be part of it. Whilst we reflect and say, "You know what, I'm just going to enjoy this damn thing".
Because, well, when you go to a good party, more often than not, you don't constantly check how much time is left. You're not tracking minutes or calculating whether you've used it well enough, or even comparing to how others in the same room are doing the same thing. You're just there. Engaged. Present.
And that's OK
Because when it ends... which it always does... ideally, towards the end, you leave with some sense of gratitude. Not resentment that it didn't last longer, not frustration that you didn't maximise every second, but a quiet acknowledgement that it was, simply, something you got to be part of.
Maybe that's the shift.
Instead of asking, "Where has my time gone?", we ask something far more confronting: Was I actually there for it?
Because time doesn't just pass. It's lived.
This blog is written by John Reardon, Counsellor at Clear Ground Counselling in Berwick, Beaconsfield, Officer, Narre Warren & Southeast Melbourne. The reflections and ideas shared here are drawn from my own experience and perspective.